


the Kaleidoscope and his Microscope

by nihlus



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, don't read this if you're sensitive to material like this, general cancer-related things, i'm doing research on what i can regarding tumours but really, no really, potentially triggering material, trigger warning for mentions of tumours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2056047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihlus/pseuds/nihlus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has been having headaches, and is dealt a prognosis that neither he nor Arthur can really stomach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Kaleidoscope and his Microscope

**Author's Note:**

> There are potential triggers in this. Ngl. If you're not comfortable with hospitals, or hospital visits, or doctors delivering bad news, I'm telling you this now: this fic is not the fic for you. 
> 
> This is also a work in progress, so edits would be made here and there if I see fit. That, and it's likely that there will be another chapter to this entire thing. 
> 
> Bear with me. Also, hope you enjoy!

There's something to be said in the way people keep fighting: whether it’s the struggle to stay alive when they’re cornered in a fight, or if it’s the unfortunate truth that some people have their own body fail them before their supposed ‘time’. We all want some say in how we die and when we die, though, really, chances are we’re all going to die because of something that isn’t in our control.

We’re also not fond of incidents (where are reminded in some way, shape or form or by some unkind twist of fate) that remind us of our mortality. Whether we bring it into our consciousness or not, we all have a bucket list: a list of shit that we need to get done before we die.

It's ugly at first. I mean, it isn't the same as someone dying right there and then, but it's just about the same. Stages of grief. Textbook.

With Eames, it was the same thing.

He’d complained of headaches the last few months. Wincing in pain, the both of them had shrugged it off as nothing – headaches come and go. But when the frequency of said headaches started to increase, along with the intensity of the pain, Eames started the painkillers.

But when Eames was doubled over in pain, biting his lip to somehow concentrate on willing his headache away, he eventually asks Arthur in the most pain he’d ever been in, to take him to the hospital. Arthur pockets the painkillers and gives Eames two pills, refusing when Eames asks if he can have another. When the pain eventually subsides, Arthur pushes him to go for some scans, even when Eames insists he’s fine. When he looks at Arthur who only responds with a withering look, Eames grudgingly agrees. “I’m telling you, it’s nothing. It’s just a need for stronger sedatives, darling.”

When Arthur gets a call a few days later from the hospital though, he's looking at Eames who stares back at him over the back of the couch. He looks perfectly fine, but when he gets the call, asking that they both come into the hospital to see Dr. Weiss from Oncology, his heart sinks.

They go in, and Arthur's next to him, mentally preparing himself for what was going to come.

It didn't work.

Eames is sitting on the chair, staring at the oncologist, wide-eyed before leaning back. "You're shitting me." His shoulders are still pulled back, but Arthur notices the tiniest of slumps that just starts to form, before his back straightens out again. It's happening for him too. He's pretending not to hear what the oncologist just said, instead, focusing on tuning shit out and focusing on the tiniest of details. His eyes instinctively fall on the doctor’s desk, the jade elephant that sits there, he immediately starts to construct it in his mind – what he’s trained to do. Because God knows he wasn't trained for this. They're equipped to deal with bad situations, and to make the best of them, but there's a difference between knowing what to do when someone shoots you, and when you find out that your life partner has three months to live. Looking at Eames unblinkingly, the oncologist keeps his voice level as he repeats his prognosis.

It's a tumour. It will get worse without an operation. Eames can either have the operation or no. Without the operation, he would surely die. With the operation, there is a chance for a full recovery, but he would most likely, lose his vision.

Arthur looks over at Eames, and he just looks stricken, like he’d stood up and let the good oncologist take a whack at his head with a bat. “I’m not having the operation.” He responds to Weiss clearly before Arthur looks away, Eames’ fist slamming down onto the arm of his chair coming into view. Arthur can’t really imagine the kind of sacrifice Eames was being asked to make.

The oncologist's eyes go to Arthur; it’s a silent request to have him, please, try to talk some sense into Eames going for it. Arthur knows that that’s the right thing to do; from a rational standpoint, if Eames wanted to live, he’d have to go for it. But there’s a small part of Arthur that doesn’t want to be cooperative. Not just yet. Not until he was done with his coming to terms that his partner was dying.

The oncologist's saying a few things, but Eames and Arthur both know that they're not really listening. Even though they're so different, there's one thing about them that's the same. Their process of trying to understand things. They take things slowly, and they consider as many possibilities as they can. It's how they're trained, it's how they work, and it works. It's partly why they work, but when they're faced with the likelihood that they're not going to be able to hold the other's hand a year from now, just 365 measly days from now, it's something significant enough to cause Arthur's head to hang just a little.

They don't leave the office until half an hour later, where Eames is, for the first time in his life, blank. They get into the car quietly, and drive back to their place. They don't talk about it. That night, neither of them say a word about what they'd just heard. It isn't the right time. Let the information sink in, and then they'd have a talk. That night, Arthur calls in some food even though they're not that hungry. They eat quietly at the table, having an early night. The leftovers are stacked neatly into the fridge by Arthur, and Eames comes up behind him, hugging him before kissing Arthur’s cheek. He doesn’t pair it with his usual ‘I love you’, but Arthur doesn’t call him out on it. It doesn’t matter. He knows. Eames is doing his best to keep up a brave front, giving his partner a soft smile.

That night though, they spend the night, backs facing each other as they pretend to sleep. In the morning, they say nothing about the fact that they had full knowledge that the other person was awake throughout the night. They also do not address how each of them had damp pillows.

\---

Over the next few days, it devolved. Quickly.

Yelling. A lot of yelling, a lot of misplaced anger, with each other as the unfortunate targets. A china bowl's picked up, and it's thrown against the wall. It shatters to pieces, which causes Arthur to twitch just a little. "I'm fucking  _dying_ , Arthur, so maybe now's not really the time to kick up a fucking fuss about whether or not I eat the cereal in the fucking bowl." Eames throws the cereal box at Arthur, who doesn't make a move to dodge it, the cardboard hitting him squarely on the forehead. "I'm about to go fucking  _blind_  because my body is too fucking stupid to do anything about it, and I'm about to fucking  _die_ , Arthur."

"Stop it."

Eames gives him a look as though he's been slapped in the face, and Arthur instantly regrets it. "Stop it?" His voice is soft, dangerously soft as he glares at Arthur. "Oh, this is going to be interesting." He leans against the pillar, arms crossed. "How, Arthur? How, do you expect me to stop the growth," he gestures at his head now, "that is in this head, that's going to fucking kill m-"

"You don't know that."

"But we  _do_ , Arthur, we fucking  _do_." Another bowl joins the remnants of the first one, with Eames coming closer towards him. "Get it through your head, Arthur, because God knows we'll have to." He's annoyed when Arthur doesn't seem to respond, instead standing rooted to his spot, glaring at Eames. After the silence goes on for far too long, Eames grabs Arthur by the collar, pulling him closer towards him, finding a familiar whiff of an old demon.

Alcohol. On Arthur's breath. Arthur was never really for drinking. He'd always stated that he kept himself sober whenever possible. Saw the appeal of alcohol, but never particularly enjoyed it. Always said that he wanted to be in control of who he was, how he was. Couldn't do his job properly if he wasn't. He'd always decline a glass if he could, but today, Arthur smells like hard liquor, causing Eames' temper to flare. He balls his fist before sighing, letting it unfurl in his hands. "You fucking idiot. Now's not the time to start drinking." He sighs, watching with a sharp pain in his own heart as Arthur says nothing, pulling away from Eames before letting his back hit the wall, sliding down. He isn't crying, but Eames knows that if he's turned to the bottle, he's just about lost it. He'd only seen that happen once before, and it wasn't pretty. Guilt starts to cut into Eames, watching as Arthur tries to prevent himself from crying, the minute jaw movement indicating one thing: biting his bottom, inner lip to stop. Anyone who was looking at Arthur who didn't know him would've thought he was just brooding. But Eames knew better; this was Arthur's way of dealing. A little drunk, sure, but he'd never vocalise how he felt. Eames' earlier temper is dissolved, and he sighs, joining Arthur's side, sitting with him.

"Oy. Idiot." Arthur says nothing, forcing Eames to pull him into a hug instead. "Listen to me, and listen well." Eames sighs, pulling Arthur closer. "Don't do this. Don't start drinking because of me, because of what might happen to me." He sighs into Arthur, closing his eyes. "I need you sober. I need you as my rock. You can do that, right?" He waits for the nod, which Arthur eventually gives. He holds Arthur a little closer to him, eventually feeling his hands come up Eames' back, grasping at his suit.

They spend a few more minutes on the floor, ending with Arthur falling asleep on the floor. Eames can't help but enjoy the moment of happiness, pulling a pillow and blanket for Arthur before returning to the private haven of the bathroom. Staring at himself in the mirror, Eames watches as he breaks down, quietly staring at his reflection. They’d arranged for the operation to be in 2 days. In 2 days, Eames was likely to lose his sight.

As a forger, he’d learnt to appreciate what he could see. In the short timespan of minutes, sometimes even seconds, he had to learn, pick up and portray everything that he could, based on whatever he saw. He’d started to apply that to his everyday life as well, appreciating the small, little things that happened, committing whatever he wanted to memory. Rainbows, the sunrise and sunsets, the look on Arthur’s face whenever he told him he loved him, it all mattered. And he wouldn’t be able to take in any of it anymore the moment his life was just a little closer to being saved.

Going back to the living room where Arthur lay asleep, Eames sits in front of him, just watching. He knows Arthur hates Eames doing this, watching him as he sleeps; but with what little time that he has, Eames watches, refusing to let any moment pass without Arthur in his sight.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned earlier this is a work in progress. A second chapter should be coming up (I hope), and we get to deal with more angst. Because all aboard the writing train, with the final destination being Angstville, amirite? 
> 
> As usual, concrit is welcome. Enjoy!


End file.
